


Obsidian

by Kisuru



Category: X -エックス- | X/1999
Genre: Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crueltide, Extended Metaphors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8899570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisuru/pseuds/Kisuru
Summary: Fuuma asks Kamui to stab him. Kamui does not understand, and maybe he never will.As opposing Twin Stars they are bathed in fire and darkness—an unequal reflection.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarsDragon/gifts).



_Twin Stars revolve in a waltz of starlight and darkness. Those stars eclipse each other at night, and each is always ready to steal his accompanying star’s place. Each star wants to shine.  
  
The nature of binary stars means living close in parallel, reflecting their companion and waiting.  
  
But Twin Stars are not binary stars.  
  
One Twin Star’s purpose is life. The other is death.  
  
Both are fire and darkness that form the Earth surrounded by ash and grey skies.  
  
  
_

* * *

  
“Bye Kamui! I’ll see you later!”  
  
Under the dim streetlight, Keiichi excitedly waved to him in goodbye. He backed away slowly and sped down the street into the darkness. He had been like that all night, even during the movie—especially the action sequences. Kamui imagined fuzzy brown dog ears and a tail spouting out of Keiichi’s head and back; Keiichi would practically be wag his tail at the prospect of seeing Kamui again tomorrow.  
  
Kamui still couldn’t get used to the idea of that.  
  
It was weird beyond reason. But it was one of those warm fuzzy inducing feelings Kamui probably would never understand. At least not until the Promised Day passed and, by extension, he lived through it.  
  
Kamui turned on his heel and back the opposite way.  
  
Walking back to CLAMP Campus from here would take a little while, but he really didn’t mind that. He should have asked one of the Dragons of Heaven to accompany him back. Yuzuriha would scold him for being irresponsible, and Sorata would pin on him that he didn’t have to take chances when the Angels might be lurking in every crevice and nook in Tokyo.  
  
Kamui wanted… well, simply, he wanted to enjoy a few rare moments of freedom for himself.  
  
He was foolish and stubborn, yes. But he needed it.  
  
Maybe it would be impossible for him to do that. But he still harbored a fragment of hope for Fuuma.  
  
Kamui shut his eyes and inhaled. The mid-summer Tokyo air filled his lungs, the stale scent of dried up flower beds and home cooking filling his nose. The late evening breeze ruffled his hair and felt like a breath of fresh against his skin. Eyes half-lidded, he examined the creases and nicks of white lines of his hands, the dents and scars that should not be there. Under the old scars, he could see veins faintly pop out of his palm, the backs of his hands. Blood flowed peacefully, silently, not a throb of pain but of life.  
  
Even now, Kamui’s hands felt cold and lifeless.  
  
Keiichi’s hands had been warm and inviting.  
  
Fuuma’s hands were scalding. Hot with blood.  
  
When Fuuma had sliced him with glass shards on the night of Kotori death, the sheer emotional and physical pain had been in equal parts excruciating.  
  
Some days, Kamui relived the vicious bite of glass penetrating his skin. The raw sensory overload had been overexerting, a blinding and searing ripping and piercing of nerves and blood vessels.  
  
Warmth and pain. And it was so much different, almost a longing, that Kamui had. He used to feel like that, too, full of bluster and fiery anger. It had been different back then—now, Kamui felt coldness and numbness he still couldn’t adjust to.  
  
It was weaker. Less welcome. But he couldn’t fix it.  
  
Fuuma’s hands—  
  
“You should have invited me to the movie with you,” a voice as smooth and velvet as white chocolate said, “if you needed an escort home, Kamui.”  
  
Kamui’s reflexes kicked into overdrive fast enough to dodge the assault. He skidded across the sidewalk just as a hand enclosed around the spot his neck had been a second ago. Wildly, he sought out pedestrians that may have wandered near. To his momentary relief, the street was void of stragglers.  
  
Fuuma landed gracefully yet carelessly in a crouch. He shamelessly grinned up like a tiger on the prowl and waved above his head in greeting.  
  
Thoughts jumbled, Kamui’s tongue successfully tied itself up in a convenient bow. He might as well be presenting himself on like a prison of war ready for torture if he did nothing. Fully aware of it, stress prickled at the back of his neck. Now that Fuuma was like this, and after every time they fought, Kamui increasingly lost the image he had leftover.  
  
“Fuuma…” Kamui backed up one step.  
  
Fuuma glanced in the direction Kamui had come.  
  
“I think he’s your new friend?” Fuuma’s lips twisted into a brazen smirk, unfettered. “That’s cute, Kamui. You’re doing something for yourself instead of preparing yourself for what’s yet to come. But being a little selfish hasn’t taught you anything.”  
  
Taught him anything? Keiichi squashes the stress of everyday life away. Kamui needed nothing else.  
  
“If you’re thinking of—“ Kamui snarled. It was a struggle—he normally could never bring himself to show animosity towards Fuuma in any capacity even if it would cost him his life. Yes, he barely mustered up the willpower to protect himself on some days, but if it was for his friend, he would do anything.  
  
Just like he would for Fuuma. If this was _his_ Fuuma.  
  
And even if it wasn’t…  
  
An icicle of dread and anger bubbled in Kamui’s stomach. His first thought retreated to Fuuma’s hint he may intentionally kill Keiichi—he did _not_ need that burden after his father’s passing in the Sunshine 60 earthquake—but Kamui’s mind backtracked. The taunt was aimed at him and not Keiichi after all.  
  
“Fuuma, I don’t want to—“  
  
“You don’t want to fight. You always say that. You don’t want to fight for your own wish, and that’s the worst choice you’ll make,” Fuuma replied.  
  
Kamui paused, hand mid-air. That was the truth.  
  
“Out of all the wishes in this world, Kamui,” Fuuma murmured, standing up and pocketing both hands in the safety of his jacket, “your wish is the last one you understand. Why is it you can’t figure it out?”  
  
Shouldn’t it obvious why Kamui couldn’t do that?  
  
Kamui squinted at him. “What are you talking about? My wish is bring you back to who you were before!”  
  
Fuuma shook his head and clucked his tongue mischievously. He closed his eyes, thoughtful though dismissive, almost a mask of tranquility. The row of potted red and yellow flowers next to him added a layer of nature he should represent.  
  
Kamui tensed. He waited for the chase.  
  
“Before you made your decision, you were like a volcano on the constant warpath of explosion,” Fuuma sighed sadly, dramatically. He took a step towards him, and Kami in turn stepped backward. “You knew what you wanted… but you lost your way and you’re a lamb ready for the slaughterhouse.”  
  
Kamui’s fists clenched, but he had no idea what to respond with. Of course he had changed—he had lost everything he loved and cherished.  
  
On the other hand, Fuuma had lost nothing. He had been happy, and Kamui had even returned—so why had he decided to destroy a world of happiness?  
  
Fuuma’s eyes snapped open. A soft smile.  
  
“You know…” His tone became silkier, spun deliberately on a new path. “Tonight this doesn’t feel right.” Gleaming in his eyes, the light from the nearby streetlamp looks like an otherworldly blue. “I want something a little different. I’m getting quite sick of you not doing anything, and I think it’s about time you do.”  
  
Silver. A flash of silver under the moonlight.  
  
Kamui went on alert then. His arms rose to deflect it.  
  
Kamui moved on pure instinct to grab them. The clammy metal met his hands. He froze, clutching the hilt. The blade’s curve bites lightly into his skin.  
  
Two knives were in his hands.  
  
“Usually, I’m the one doing this,” Fuuma admitted tiredly. “Trying to kill you. Oh, don’t worry,” he said at Kamui’s wounded expression, “I’ll still kill you. But our real fate isn’t until the Promised Day.”  
  
Kamui scowled. He was still processing that Fuuma had thrown knives at him without deadly intent, and he somehow had not moved out of the way in time.  
  
“Then why aren’t you trying to kill me?” Kamui spat. He had the open edge here. He had basically invited Fuuma to come here while wanting breathing room from the other Dragons of Heaven. Fuuma had the perfect chance to do as he pleased, all considered.  
  
Fuuma chuckled. Amused, deviously pleased. Before Kamui registered it, Fuuma was close enough to touch Kamui with a brush of his nose.  
  
Obviously, he wanted Kamui’s bad side to play.  
  
“That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not good to be stubborn, Kamui. You’ll miss out on many interesting things.” Fuuma clapped then, all casualness and sunshine despite his own outlook. “I have a proposition for you.”  
  
Kamui’s understanding of Fuuma motivations dropped several degrees below the meter. The duty bound, responsible Fuuma Kamui remembered. The sadist was the freshest in his memory but the young Fuuma he loved the most would never be forgotten. But he was not used to a lenient Fuuma asking for something without taking it.  
  
Kamui’s thoughts were fuzzy daydreams on the precipice of its own kind of dangerous. He hated how nice Fuuma touching him felt even at a few inches distance, and how he should despite it.  
  
No, seriously. Back to the real questions here. Why was he holding _knives_? That Fuuma gave him?  
  
Willingly?  
  
Sick of their roundabout, Kamui banished the stammer and confusion and decided above all that he had nothing to lose. “What proposition?”  
  
Fuuma was noncommittal. “Cut me.”  
  
Kamui blinked. Once. Twice. “Eh?”  
  
“Cut me with those knives. Anywhere. If I bleed even a little bit, you win for today.” He practically purred this, and Fuuma cupped Kamui’s cheek, thumbing a path from his chin to the edge of his mouth. Kamui squirmed and tried to turn his face away. “I obviously can’t give you a sword. We won’t hold swords until the Shinken are unsheathed, but this will do.”  
  
Kamui could retract what he had thought earlier. Fuuma still was duty-bound and overtly serious.  
  
He really couldn’t believe this still, but Fuuma was giving him an opportunity, and something was calling to Kamui to answer that pull of orbit.  
  
“What’s in it for you?” Kamui asked.  
  
Fuuma hummed. “I’ll leave you alone for a day. If you can’t, I won’t leave you alone. How about it?”  
  
For a day only? Kamui already went days without seeing Fuuma. Those days felt like eternities, but Kamui somehow powered through them.  
  
“A day?” Kamui repeated tone dry and dubious.  
  
Fuuma reconsidered. Kamui equated it to a shadow of disappoint. His skin crawled at the implication.  
  
“You can’t drive a hard bargain, can you.” He leered, enthralled at sweetening the pot. Kamui can’t tell if his “generosity” is in his favor or Fuuma’s.  “A week.”  
  
Kamui’s eyes widened. Purple irises dilated; fear like a dead weight smashes into his heart. “I—I can’t…”  
  
The air shifted and something darker took over. Fuuma’s grip tightened. He forced Kamui’s head up to snap up at him directly head-on, gaze unwavering. Kamui’s nose filled with the faint lingering mixture of stale candy, dried blood, and machinery oil.  
  
“Of course you can’t hurt me, because you’re weak,” Fuuma interrupted. “And that’s why the Dragons of Earth will kill all of the Dragons of Heaven. Because you can’t think of your own wish and accept it.”  
  
Something like a creature shaking the bars of its cage loose burst open in Kamui. He still didn’t know exactly how to protect the Dragons of Heaven, all of them so loyal to him when he didn’t deserve any of it. _Subaru._ Because he hated that someone made him so sad, and he didn’t deserve that treatment at all.  
  
For them to die—  
  
Kamui raised the knives and swung. Thin air met his thrust, and he went flying forward on the ground. Fuuma’s foot landed a perfect blow against his ribcage and he suddenly went lurching backwards as quickly as he had forwards. The knives clattered to the pavement inches away. Kamui gripped to a rough patch of upturned pavement. Fuuma roughly grabbed a handful of his hair, twists, and throws him.  
  
Kamui gasped for air and clutched at his stomach.  
  
“Is this all the Dragons of Heaven’s Kamui to offer me, the Kamui of Earth? You are a disappointment.” Fuuma leaned in closer to Kamui and licked a trail of blood off of his cheek. “You’re never going to be able to kill me on the Promised Day. I’m giving you a chance. Now, take chase and succeed.”  
  
“F—Fuuma…” Kamui huffed, though he grimaces. He coughs and stutters. The ground is a comfortable pillow more so than Fuuma’s touch, mossy and hard.  
  
“You have until midnight. We can’t have the Dragons of Heaven coming to look for you, can we?”  
  
Fuuma turned his back on him. He leapt on top of the stone wall and admired the obscured stars. The light pollution from Tokyo’s highest skyscrapers surely added to the lack of starlight, but he looked as if he must have seen the universe with his power.  
  
With that, from the corner of his eye, Fuuma jumped away into the silvery and white evening sky.  
  


* * *

  
Immediately after Fuuma’s retreat, Kamui lifted the knives and examined them. Surprisingly, they were ordinary household knives lacking equipped magic—anything a housewife could buy from the store and take pride in. Super sharp, reliable, and sturdy.  
  
Fuuma was making fun of him. That was the gist of it.  
  
He could feel Fuuma’s presence. Following it would be simple; his aura was a pulse, a dark essence that enveloped and tugged and pleaded for Kamui to hunt him down and strike. Fuuma knew too well that side of his psychic ability, though it had dampened considerably since his choice. Kamui never could figure out why. Perhaps tracking auras was the sign of a darker ability that switched to Fuuma. In that case, the universe hated him with an implausible passion for having an upper hand advantage. Still, no one could locate Fuuma through the same wavelength. That’s what Fuuma anticipated.  
  
Sometimes it struck him as strange Fuuma’s power had grown drastically and his had decreased in some aspects. The difference was imperceptible, though, since they were both powerful Kamui. But… ability-wise, he saw that power reflected in Fuuma and his drive to destroy.  
  
Peaceful and brutish flipped from how they once were when things had been simpler and kinder.  
  
Observations like that Kamui couldn’t tell anyone.  
  
Kamui sighed and weighed the knives. He had never had to carry a knife except to help in the kitchen. And now, he was supposed to hurt Fuuma. What would be wrong with a power blast? Even that Kamui had held off on recently… Didn’t Fuuma _adore_ destructive power blasts? In fact, he was surprised Fuuma hadn’t given him a whip or something less… well, unpredictable. Fuuma screamed unconventional methods. Not this tame.  
  
Likely, he didn’t expect Kamui aiming the stupid thing right way so he would laugh at his misery.  
  
Kamui grit his teeth in frustration for what his move should be and stabbed the knives at the brick wall next to him. It bounced off. His hand shook.  
  
Again, Fuuma was outfitting him with training wheels.  
  
But at least he didn’t have to kill him or anything.  
  
But still. What was the whole point of this?  
  
Eventually, after emboldening himself with that little shred of confidence, he sought Fuuma out. At his leisure Fuuma had gone to a nearby park. He stood on the bridge overseeing a patch of water. Kamui snuck up closer and, when Fuuma glanced the other way, he raised the knife and started towards him.  
  
It was too easy and wide open for Fuuma to dodge, and he absolutely knew it. What else could he do?  
  
Sighing dejectedly, Fuuma seized his wrist like a steel trap. He twisted his wrist so hard the brittle bones (that hadn’t somehow been split by this point) rattled, earning a yelp from Kamui. The knives fell out of his hand and clattered. Fuuma grabbed him by the collar, then pinned him against the railing by the throat. Kamui gasped for air, shoving at him.  
  
“You’re not an assassin hiding behind a bush, Kamui,” he simply said. His face was stoic and eerie as if to coincide with his pragmatic outlook. It was just as dark and gritty as usual. “Come at me with your full force and don’t use sneak attacks.”  
  
Fuuma carelessly tossed him over the edge of the bridge. The wind rushed back his ears, and Kamui braced for impact; water filled his lungs and he flailed. Sputtering and splashing, Kamui spit out mouthfuls of water and squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
So he would have to try again. At this point it was 11 pm. Well, technically, he had warned the others in the house that he could be out late with Keiichi at his house doing homework or watching another movie. That was out of the way… but someone was bound to worry. Since everyone always did about him.  
  
And damn if they _didn’t_ have the right to worry.  
  


* * *

  
Fuuma went to somewhere crowded, and Kamui still could not believe how long tracking him down took.  
  
It was maddening to pinpoint him and Fuuma racing off as soon as he was detected in that same spot. So far, Kamui had found minimal luck seeing him, and Fuuma refused to give him an inch. He kept getting himself engulfed in the throes of crowds.  
  
And time and time again Fuuma kept dodging him. What did he even expect Kamui to do like this!?  
  
Fearing normal people would see the knives were another thing. But he had hidden them well so far.  
  
Kamui hated playing mind games more than ever.  
  
The neon sign above a local supermarket said it was 11:33 pm. Frustration did not describe his feelings.  
  
And Kamui sensed that Fuuma had stopped walking.  
  
Kamui found Fuuma at an ice cream parlor. Fuuma sat comfortably outside on the balcony towards the back tables where nobody else was. It would have been the best get-away spot for any onlookers—so, yes, it was abundantly obvious why Fuuma had intentionally chosen it. At first, he ignored Kamui, and this burned at his ego worse than anything.  
  
Kamui stared at him. Fuuma nursed a chocolate ice cream cone attentively, eating like a gentleman. Rainbow sparkles. Chocolate dipped, too, with a waffle cone crust.  In his other hand, he held another cone with sweet red bean paste ice cream flavor. Was he planning to eat all that? The dark pink color looked like crimson blood in the darkness.  
  
For the first time, Kamui wanted to punch him.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he hissed through his teeth. Face twitching, Kamui glowered at Fuuma’s… suggestive licking. While Kamui had run around devising plans that wouldn’t have worked anyway, he was just sitting here eating delicious ice cream.  
  
The lopsided tilt of Fuuma’s head begged for forgiveness and taunted his true innocence.  
  
“Waiting for _you,_ obviously,” Fuuma said all too casually. He licked and nibbled at his chocolate chip cone in bliss and Kamui had to resist the urge to shield his eyes. “I originally invited Seishirou to meet here tonight. But he’s a huge stick in the mud, you know. I guess he’s off being creepy somewhere else.” He held up the red bean paste cone in his hand in front of Kamui’s face with extra innocence attached. “Want it? It’ll melt soon anyway.”  
  
Blood. He was giving him blood.  
  
Blood that Kamui was supposed to take.  
  
Fuuma really _was_ mocking his lack of action.  
  
Kamui thought he may have seen red behind his own eyelids before it happened. Either it was the pounding anger in his head, or it was the red bean paste that flew in all directions. But he remembered seeing the knife slice towards the ice cream and halving the cream directly from the house of its cone. It plopped across the table’s placemat in a mess.  
  
Fuuma didn’t miss a beat. He dropped the red bean ice cream as quickly as it became a liability to his performance. But Fuuma was still sitting, and Kamui realized he could still turn this around for himself.  
  
Psychic abilities came in handy sometimes after all.  
  
He willed the table to fly into Fuuma and his chair legs to rise. Half out of his chair, the lack of balance knocked Fuuma off kilter for a heartbeat of second. Fuuma reached out and snatched Kamui’s arm just as he chair dragged him sideways. A giant crash sounded as they tumbled to the carpeted floor in a heap of limbs, clunky metal and polished wood.  
  
The edge of the table smashed into Kamui’s abdomen. He cried out, but he refused to let that detour him from the path he had set himself on.  
  
Catching his breath, Kamui looked for an opening while Fuuma pushed the table off himself. He grunted, clearly at least semi-surprised. Kamui dived and took his chance while the time was ripe.  
  
The knife hissed through the air. Fuuma lifted his chair and put in front of himself, and the knife lodged in the center of the seat and stabbed the cushion.  
  
Purple eyes fierce, Kamui raised the other knife above his head. One more chance. He rolled over and aimed. The knife made a whoosh as he threw it as hard as he possible could. The knife breezed through Fuuma’s defenses. Fuuma’s arm was exposed (almost as if to goad him on) and made a slight dent on his upper arm. Fuuma didn’t make a noise at this victory, but he paused in realization, the worst kind of sadistic smile stretching his facial features.  
  
Weirdly enough, Fuuma laughed in triumph.  
  
For who’s triumph, Kamui would never know.  
  
Kami wasn’t even sure he had won at all.  
  
Blood oozed down Fuuma’s arm. Red droplets fell like a small waterfall across tanned and muscled skin, spurting on his clothes and down his arm.  
  
Fuuma pouted like a child. He managed to find a napkin under the small wreckage and wiped a trail of blood streaming to his elbow off. “That was a dirty trick, Kamui. Way to crash our fun little party and waste a perfectly good ice cream cone.”  
  
He meant none of that. He was sickeningly _happy._  
  
Kamui inhaled sharply. In and out, he reminded. Meditative breaths would slow his heart rate from over doing it. Sorata’s advice about coping and keeping a cool head would do him well right now.  
  
Kamui pushed aside the table corner cutting into his ribs and gulped in breaths of air to compensate.  
  
Explaining his latest bruises would be an adventure.  
  
Fuuma sobered up at Kamui’s decisiveness. A peculiar little glint crossed his eyes, and he looked absolutely riveted. “I’m proud! Imagine, you could have been a Dragon of Earth with your swiftness and skill—but you still have so much to learn!”  
  
Kamui hunched over. No, he never wanted to eliminate the few people he loved, or destroy the Earth. Even this psychopath in front of him covered in blood and sugar. He felt sick. He wanted to heave everything in his stomach out. Even cutting Fuuma just a little went against all his principles.  
  
But oddly… a thrill raced through his veins. It made Kamui heady, and he almost relished that.  
  
“You’re looking pale,” Fuuma observed, peering down at him over the broken chair’s leg. Somehow, miraculously, he still held the half of the ice cream left still tucked safety in his hand. Like usual, he didn’t act like it was out of the ordinary. The kindness and gentleness he offered the ice cream was a whole new level of malicious in and of itself. “I think you need sugar to calm yourself down. All the flavors are delicious here; as is an indirect kiss.”  
  
Kamui shivered. He didn’t even know if he heard that right, but _indirect kiss_ echoed in his mind like a never ending melody of wailing piano keys.  
  
He wanted to lash out. Definitely not stab Fuuma again, though. That damn ice cream, it was mocking him and calling out to him. Lightheadedness opened the floodgate to his already frayed, broken heart. A tear welled in his purple eyes but did not fall.  
  
Finding some figment of strength within himself, he smacked the ice cream out of Fuuma’s hand so hard it splattered against the next table. Destroyed, the cone explodes and cream slides off the table’s edge. His hand slapped Fuuma’s palm and blood smeared on his own palm. Kamui only stared at the faint outline of blood smudges appalled and shocked  
  
He hated himself for it, even if Fuuma had asked for it, because something inside of him stirred. A deep internal feeling he never thought much about.  
  
“Shut up. I did it... I did what you asked me to do,” Kamui panted. He lifted the knife weakly, then dropped his arms, a wave of nausea trying to claim the little stamina he had remaining. “I stabbed you. And you just sit there like I didn’t do anything?”  
  
That was the shoe that dropped. Kamui had thought his ego would _finally_ have a little food for thought, but Fuuma did not seem especially inquisitive. Kamui thought he would be sick at the sight of it.  
  
Fuuma covered his gaping wound. Blood pooled on his hand and leaked through his fingertips.  
  
“Just barely.” The words were uncompassionate and sour. Rarely did Fuuma acknowledge that Kamui did anything right. It was always about the Twin Star Fuuma being better than him, but he had to relent.  
  
Kamui bristled. Despite his reservations, this felt… so real, so different from what he usually went through. And it wasn’t Fuuma provoking him but the fact he had done this. “So you don’t care?”  
  
Based on the way he lifted his hand to examine the streaks of his own blood, Fuuma was not impressed. Kamui felt the sting at blood being more fascinating than the one who had actually inflicted the wound.  
  
“To understand your wish, you can’t sit passively,” Fuuma tells him. “You’ve done something, haven’t you? I think you learned something about yourself today that you didn’t know before. That’s wherein your problem lies. That’s why you’ll never figure out your wish and make it come true.” His face drops, seethe. “You still did it because I told you to.”  
  
Again with the wish. Again with him making the mistakes and Fuuma being void of problems!  
  
Why was Fuuma giving him advice at all? Digging out the meaning of these hints and riddles was like swimming through a lava pit and suffocating.  
  
“What did you expect!” Kamui’s hand shook as he pointed the blood-tipped knife at Fuuma. Fuuma did not retaliate at all and smiled serenely. “I don’t want to hurt you, or stab you, or do anything like this! I don’t even care about a week away from you, because I’d do anything to bring you back!”  
  
Pink spread to the tips of his ears. Embarrassment. He… well… even if Fuuma treated him in the cruel way he usually did, he never wanted to be separated.  
  
Kamui was a mess and he couldn’t deny it.  
  
“Ah, there it is.” Once again, Fuuma’s sunny, zestful smile returned, pleased that Kamui had taken the bait. He raised his hand to his lips and licked the blood off just like it was his ice cream from before. “Maybe you haven’t lost that touch, at least.”  
  
Kamui wished, right then, he could be as angry and bitter as he used to be. Venting his frustration in slashes and hacks at this Fuuma would make up for something whether or not he regretted it. Mourning his mother’s death had been swept away by persistent men in black and a blind priestess. But even then, he would feel immense guilt and longing. Hurting Fuuma… someone like a brother, and even more than that, it was… utterly impossible.  
  
“We’re Twin Stars, but you and I aren’t equal.” Fuuma pushed himself out from under the furniture and stood to his feet, quite composed despite the circumstances. “Can you guess who’s inequality will do the most damage to this world, to everyone who cares about them? Can you see the end yet?”  
  
Kamui scowled, speechless and numb. The willpower to do anything had been sapped out of his bones and the very fabric of his soul. He had no answer, and his mouth was dry. Strangely, he picks up a twinge of—not regret—but encouragement in that tone.  
  
Fuuma’s aura is not completely dark. It’s worse than that. It’s truthful, the scalding white light of fate itself.  
  
Fuuma reached down and held out his hand. He graces Kamui with a grin that could masquerade as genuine. Dizzy, Kamui allows himself be helped up. He idly brushes himself off and ignores the blood on his shirt. Questions would be asked later and he already can feel the _joy_ of answering inquiries. Would find an opening to sneak through the back undetected.  
  
When he thought he was safe, Fuuma’s hand was behind his head in a flash. Kamui’s was forcibly bent forward. His lips were put close to the leaking wound. He froze, too terrified even breath.  
  
“Taste my blood, Kamui,” Fuuma encouraged. He seems all too eager to have Kamui lapping at him. “It’s your prize for winning. After all, we didn’t really discuss what _you’d_ win in our little duel just now.”  
  
Kamui’s prize was blood.  
  
_Blood._  
  
Some extravagant prize this was.  
  
Fuuma’s sense of humor would forever be wicked.  
  
Kamui had not wanted anything besides Fuuma’s friendship to begin with—but maybe he had gotten that by just simply being near him. No matter how incredibly horrible that was, Kamui couldn’t argue.  
  
Kamui stared at the blood, woozy. He could stab him with the knife again but he couldn’t think. Fuuma’s fingers pried open his lips and he let it happen. He tried valiantly bite Fuuma’s fingers, or do something, but Fuuma forced his tongue over the wound.  
  
Kamui tasted salt and metal and sweaty skin.  
  
Fuuma stroked his hair. It was almost deceptively gentle and Kamui didn’t buy it. He reluctantly tasted the blood skirting the edge of the wound. Briefly, he wondered why he didn’t fight harder, but the way Fuuma’s eyes smoldered under the parlor’s lights made him not want to really go anywhere else.  
  
And then Fuuma released him. Kamui staggered backwards and held onto the back of another chair. Smears of blood covered his lips down to his chin.  
  
“11:55 sharp! Good work,” Fuuma praised after glancing at his watch. “Have fun for the next week, Kamui. I won’t hurt you for a while, but I hope you don’t forget me with this parting gift.” Fuuma winked at him cheekily. He cheerfully waved over his shoulder. “Next week, I won’t go easy on you!”  
  
With minutes Fuuma was gone and out of sight.  
  
Maybe it was the cold ice cream. The blood had tasted… like blood. Or maybe it was the stall nearby sizzling with meat and fish. A grumble of his stomach alerted Kamui to a pang of hunger. He winced. Topping that would be difficult, and he had no idea how he would ever eat for the rest of his life.  
  
Sorata would know what to make on a night like this.  
  
Kamui tossed the knife off into the darkness. He followed Fuuma into the Tokyo lights, relying on instinct to carry him back to CLAMP Campus.  
  


* * *

  
_Together, they are the glass that shaves skin, impales and causes agony, reflects a world of ire and black.  
  
Raging fire, dripping blood, blinding light of what should be a glimmering shard of hope. Once more, leaking tears and the screams late at night—  
  
Fuuma is the fire that will be foundation of rebirth of the world, the strategist to revive a fallen utopia.  
  
Kamui is the mirror that reflects a sea of light. He is the one that has fire deep inside, fire in his heart.  
  
Both are not fully eclipsed. But those Twin Stars rotate, and they will rotate until a decision is made.  
  
Tokyo is the obsidian bedrock below the volcano that has erupted. It is the core of their very beings, and it helps shroud the world in ash and fire. One force will either crush the planet or revive it.  
  
Obsidian—the black stone of beginnings._


End file.
